


Carols in Trafalgar Square

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Denmark Street musings [25]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Christmas Caroling, Christmas Tree, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Pining, Yikes, but I really wanted it to be for Christmas, so I guess I’m writing it all tomorrow, so much pining, this is only just started, until it gets real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22022170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: This is barely started. Nobody talk to me tomorrow; I shall be eating my own body weight in chocolates, and writing. 🙈
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: Denmark Street musings [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1035698
Comments: 78
Kudos: 89





	1. The Biscuit Tin

**Author's Note:**

> This is barely started. Nobody talk to me tomorrow; I shall be eating my own body weight in chocolates, and writing. 🙈

Robin glanced up from her screen as Strike came through from the inner office. “What time are we meeting the others later?”

“Uh, six,” he replied. He dumped his mug in the sink, picked up the biscuit tin, put it down again.

Robin frowned at her screen. It was one thing writing the bare facts of infidelity into the case notes for a file. It was quite another writing the covering letter to the client outlining the evidence for the unlucky spouse to take home and digest at leisure after their face-to-face explanation. She’d found these harder to write since her divorce, painfully aware of the pain she was...well, not inflicting. She was just the bearer of bad news. Imparting?

She gradually became aware of Strike still stood there, fiddling with the biscuit tin. She glanced up again with a grin. “We out again? It’s your turn.” She stopped. He looked— “What’s up?”

“Er...”

She could have sworn he was blushing, just a little. Intrigued, she swung her chair to face him, letter forgotten. What was going on?

“This carol thing later,” he began, and stopped again.

“Yes?”

They were meeting Lucy and Greg, Ilsa and Nick to go and sing carols and admire the huge Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square, and hopefully repair to the pub for a couple of drinks afterwards. Strike had only agreed to go in a moment of sentimental idiocy when Lucy had told him Robin was coming too. And now—

“I, er, just spoke to Lucy.”

“Is she cancelling?”

“No, she was trying to extend. She’s got this friend, a fellow school mum, newly divorced, who she wants to bring along.”

“Oh, that’ll be nice.”

“For me.”

“Oh— _Oh_.”

“It’s not funny.” Strike scowled.

Robin stopped trying to hide her grin. “It is a bit.”

“Well, anyway, she’s not coming.”

“So you’re okay, then?”

Strike hesitated, sighed. “I fucked up, Robin. I don’t know what possessed me to say it, I’m sorry.”

“Say what?”

“I told her I wasn’t single, and for some reason she asked if I was going out with you, and I couldn’t think of a lie fast enough and she started squealing and ran with it—” He tailed off, blushing properly now.

“So now Lucy thinks we’re a couple?”

“Er, yeah. And she’s delighted. Sorry.” He gazed into the empty biscuit tin, unable to meet her cool grey gaze.

There was a long pause. Hesitantly, Strike raised his eyes to Robin’s. He’d expected to see...embarrassment? Irritation? Accusation? But she was grinning.

“Er, you don’t look cross,” he said hopefully.

Robin giggled. “Oh, we could have such fun with this,” she replied.

“You...don’t mind?”

“Mind? Nah, it’ll be fun. Just make sure you tell Nick and Ilsa, I’d feel bad deceiving them. But if this gets your sister off your case for a few months...?”

“Um, okay. Yeah. Thanks, Robin. I’ll text Nick.”

Robin nodded and turned back to her screen, smiling.


	2. The Missing Gloves

Strike was already grumbling quietly to himself about the wisdom of this plan as they made their way through the crowds streaming steadily towards Trafalgar Square. There were people everywhere.

He wasn’t sure which part of the plan was worse - being here at all when he could have been in front of his television, beer open, leg off, cigarette in hand - or the fact that he had agreed to let his sister carry on believing he and Robin were a couple. He had willingly consigned himself to an evening of pretending to be Robin’s boyfriend. At best it would be excruciatingly awkward. At worst...

Robin pressed close to his arm as they made their way laboriously towards the Tube entrance where they were to meet his sister and their friends.

“Looks like this do is bigger than I realised,” Strike remarked as he paused to light a cigarette.

Robin tugged her scarf a little tighter around her neck. It was colder than she’d anticipated, and she’d been dismayed on fishing in her coat pockets not to find her gloves, recalling that she’d put them on the office radiator to dry after a wet morning’s surveillance yesterday. They must be still there.

“It does seem so,” she replied, looking around at all the the people making their way towards the square. The pedestrian crossings were packed.

“Oh, there’s Lucy and Greg,” Strike said, indicating his sister up ahead, holding the hand of her youngest son. Her two older sons walked ahead with their father.

“And isn’t that Ilsa and Nick just ahead of them?” Robin asked.

Strike peered. “It is,” he said, breaking into a grin. He was very fond of his old friends, even more so in recent months since they had taken Robin in after she left her husband and helped her get back on her feet. Robin had her own flat now, but he remembered the time she lived with the Herberts with a fondness that disquieted him sometimes. With the gentle company of his old friends making them into a foursome, he and Robin had relaxed in one another’s company. He’d seen a side of her he’d never seen before, a softer Robin of leggings and fluffy socks and ponytails, and he supposed she would have seen a side to him he’d previously kept under wraps too as he slouched on the Herberts’ sofa and allowed their reminiscing and gentle teasing.

He was pulled from his reverie with a startled jump as Robin’s hand slid into his. He looked down at her, a question in his eyes, and she winked up at him. “Might as well start as we mean to go on,” she murmured.

Her fingers tangled with his, giving his hand an affectionate squeeze. Strike had opened his mouth to say that he didn’t normally do hand-holding even with girlfriends, but somehow found himself closing it again and squeezing her hand back. His heart was suddenly fluttering in his chest like some lovesick fool. He was doomed.

They soon caught up with his sister’s family, walking slower because of the youngest. They all exchanged greetings, and Lucy flung her arms around Robin and hugged her fiercely. “I’m so pleased,” she whispered, delight on her face, and Robin felt a sudden pang of guilt. She’d known that Lucy’s determination to meddle in her big brother’s love life was born of love, and it made Robin a little uncomfortable suddenly to be giving her this false hope.

Nick shook Strike’s hand with a sly wink, and Ilsa kissed him on the cheek. Robin greeted them both too and then slid her hand back into Strike’s for the remainder of the walk. It felt utterly natural already, like something they’d been doing for years, his big hand closing over hers automatically.

Ilsa glanced over her shoulder at them, saw their joined hands, and grinned up at Strike in a way that made him suddenly glad of the dark, fearful that he might be blushing.

He was utterly doomed.


	3. The Christmas Tree

The little group rounded the corner into Trafalgar Square, and Strike felt Robin’s hand tighten in his, heard her gasp.

The tree was impressive. It was huge, dominating the centre of the square, and lit up with a blaze of multicoloured lights. Strike had seen it before, but he guessed Robin hadn’t. He glanced down at her fondly, and something in her face, the childlike wonder as she gazed at the tree, rapt, squeezed around his heart.

“Right.” Greg had already commandeered a few hymn sheets from a volunteer organiser in a hi-vis tabard and Santa hat, and was passing them around, issuing instructions. They shuffled forward with the crowds. Jostled, Robin pressed closer to Strike, and he found himself sliding a protective arm around her. She sank against him gratefully as they followed Greg and Lucy, who were fiercely clutching their sons’ hands and searching for a good vantage point where the boys would be able to see.

“You okay?” Strike murmured, and Robin nodded.

“Just don’t like people squished up behind me,” she replied, and Strike tightened his arm around her protectively. He understood.

“Stand in front of me.” He turned sideways a little so Robin could stand with her shoulder in front of his. He supposed there was no need for his arm around her now, and he began to slide it away, but she clamped her hand over his, holding him in place. His hand rested against the front of her coat over her stomach, held in place by her own smaller hand.

The band struck up, and a jolly rendition of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen began. The crowd joined in with gusto, and Strike, who wasn’t much for singing at the best of times, mumbled along. Robin sang clearly but quietly, slightly self-conscious but with a clear note. She held the hymn sheet in the hand that wasn’t holding his arm around her still, slightly raised so that he could see it too, and Strike leaned a little over her shoulder to read the print in the poor light. He could smell her hair, this close, feel it against his cheek, impossibly soft and silky, and it took all of his willpower not to nuzzle into it and breathe her.

Glancing up during the chorus, he saw his sister’s eyes on him, fond and happy as she smiled at him, and he smiled back. For a moment, he found himself imagining that this was real, that Robin was his to hug, to breathe, to protect as she leaned back against his shoulder. Aware of Lucy’s eyes still on him, and telling himself that this was the reason, he pressed a light kiss to Robin’s temple, and she sighed a little and leaned in to him, pressing herself against his lips a little harder, her head tilting.

On the other side of him, he distinctly heard Ilsa giggle, and hurriedly pulled back.

Still totally, utterly doomed.


	4. The Carols

The carol singing went on longer than Robin had been imagining it would. Forty minutes in, and even in the crowds she was starting to get cold. Her hands were growing numb, her voice quavering a little as she shivered. She knew Strike could feel her shivering, and his arm tightened around her a little.

The hymn came to an end, and the announcer at the microphone called a break, promising the band would start up again in fifteen minutes or so. The little group huddled to decide what to do.

Strike voted at once for the pub, as much for Robin’s sake as his own. He could see she was cold, and his leg was aching from standing still so long. She turned in to him, rubbing her hands together, and he overcame his reticence and took her hands in his own. It was what he would have done if they were really going out with each other, after all. He rubbed her hands gently in his larger ones, trying to warm them up, determinedly ignoring Lucy’s fond gaze on one side of him and Nick’s smirk on the other.

“We could do the pub?” Greg asked, eyeing his wife hopefully.

Lucy shook her head. “We can’t take the boys in, not this late in the evening,” she said. “If we’re stopping doing carols, I guess we’d better take them home. It’s getting on towards bedtime—”

A clamour of small voices began begging to stay and sing more carols, and Robin giggled. How could the grownups refuse?

“Right,” Nick said. “In that case, let’s get a big round of hot chocolates in. That’ll warm everyone up for part two.”

Greg nodded. “Good plan, I’ll come and help.”

“We can all go,” Robin suggested, but Greg shook his head. “This is a good spot for the boys to see, need to hang onto it,” he replied. “You guys stay here, Nick and I will manage.”

“I’ll help,” Ilsa said. “You’ll never carry that many, I can ferry back and forth.”

So the Herberts and Greg set off, leaving Lucy anxiously watching three restless boys in the crowds, and Strike and Robin.

Still shivering, Robin rubbed at her arms. “Should have worn my big coat.”

Lucy smiled indulgently. “Luckily Stick’s coat is big enough for both of you,” she said. “Jack, that’s too far! Jack, come back over here. You have to stay where I can see you, it’s busy.”

Robin looked up at Strike while his sister was busy admonishing her son, and he shrugged and opened his coat to her. Blushing a little, she crept in, sliding her arm around him, pressing herself against his bulk. He was so warm and solid, and he smelled of smoke and spice and a hint of aftershave. It was all she could do not to bury her face in him, he was so deliciously cuddly.

Strike wrapped his coat around Robin, a little worried at how shivery she was, and felt her melt against him. He wondered if she was nuzzling against him deliberately. At least she seemed to be stopping shaking.

He sighed, felt her sigh with him. She felt so right in his arms, and he certainly wasn’t cold with her curves pressed against him like that and the smell of her hair right under his nose.

He was completely doomed.


	5. The Baileys Hot Chocolate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter specifically requested by hobbeshalftail3469 :)))

“Oggy!” Strike was pulled from his drifting thoughts to find that his head had dropped over Robin’s, his nose almost in her hair. He jumped at Nick’s shout. He coughed a little and stepped back, and Robin drew away, her eyes downcast.

Nick was waving at him from the coffee stand. Ilsa was already on her way towards them, carrying two takeaway cups of hot chocolate for the boys. Strike set off towards Nick and Greg, forming a relay team to ferry the drinks from the coffee cart to their protected vantage point.

Ilsa handed two hot chocolates to Lucy. “For the boys. Don’t mix them up,” she warned. “There’s Baileys in the grownups’!” She winked at Robin and set off back again.

Nick passed two adults’ hot chocolates to Strike, and gave him a wink. Greg was busy paying.

“Great commitment to the role,” Nick muttered. “Is the kissing really necessary?”

Strike could feel his cheeks colouring. “Just making it look realistic,” he said lightly, and Nick snorted. Strike turned his back firmly and took the drinks back towards Robin and Lucy. He handed them over, feeling his heart skip in his chest as Robin smiled up at him. If only all of this were real, instead of a torturous glimpse of what life might be like. He grinned at her, and set off back for more drinks.

Ilsa arrived shortly behind him with her own drink and a third one for Lucy’s boys. Lucy gave her drink to Ilsa and bustled about getting the boys to perch on the edge of a fountain, with stern warnings about not falling in. She fussed over them, making sure they had a hot chocolate each and that the drinks weren’t too hot.

“Enjoying yourself?” Ilsa asked Robin with a wink.

Robin nodded, glad of the dark to hide her pink cheeks.

“You look like you’re enjoying it rather too much,” Ilsa said slyly. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with your not-very-well-hidden feelings for Corm, would it?”

Robin shrugged. “I will admit it’s hardly an unpleasant task.”

“Well, no, otherwise you wouldn’t have agreed to it.” Ilsa sipped her Baileys hot chocolate. “Oh, my, that’s delicious. Why did you agree to it?” she asked suddenly, catching Robin off guard.

Robin shrugged again, bold suddenly. Something about this evening felt...right. “I hoped maybe he might see it’s a good idea,” she said slowly.

“I knew it!” Ilsa hissed. “I knew you fancied him!”

Robin cast her a look. “I told you I thought he was attractive.”

“Yeah, but you also said you could never go out with him and it was best for the business if you two stayed friends.”

Robin shrugged again. “That was months ago.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I— Shh.” Robin buried her face in her cup as the men returned. It was indeed a delicious drink, creamy and sweet.

Greg went to help Lucy supervise the boys, and Nick and Ilsa followed with Lucy’s drink. Strike and Robin were alone for a moment. Unsure what to say, Strike took a swig of his hot chocolate, and his eyes widened.

Robin chuckled. “Yummy, isn’t it?” She gazed up at him, and grinned. “You’ve got—”

Without thinking, she reached up to swipe a smear of chocolate foam from his top lip with her thumb. Her fingers rested on his stubbled jaw, and she was surprised at how soft a few days’ growth of beard was.

Strike felt his breath catch in his chest as her thumb ran gently across his top lip. She was barely touching him, but heat surged through him. She paused, her eyes on his jaw, frozen.

Two things hit his suddenly fog-filled brain at the same moment. One, Robin had stopped moving, her eyes sliding to his, sudden heat in her gaze. And two, the other adults were watching them, Lucy in particular.

Unbidden, his hand came up to gently take hold of her wrist. He turned her hand slightly and drew her thumb down to lick the foam from it, his eyes locked to hers.

Robin gave a little gasp, and her pupils widened, darkening her blue-grey gaze. Still staring at her, he sucked her thumb into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it, and he could swear he saw a spark of desire in her stormcloud eyes. His rash behaviour had certainly caused a rush of awareness though his own body.

For a moment Robin was mesmerised, and then suddenly it was too much and she drew her hand away. He released her at once, and Robin, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze, stepped forward to bury her face in his chest. His breathing was just as unsteady as hers was.

Strike closed his eyes briefly, trying to get his breathing and libido under control, and when he opened them again Nick was watching him, eyebrows raised.

Strike dropped his head down over Robin’s and took a shuddering breath. He really was just completely doomed.


	6. The Kiss

“What was all that about, that finger-licking?” Nick muttered to Strike as they reassembled for the second half of the carol singing. Robin and Ilsa had gathered up the empty cups to take back to the stand.

Strike just shook his head. “Fuck knows. This evening was a terrible, terrible idea.”

“Why? You guys look perfect together.”

Strike sighed. “And that’s exactly the problem. It feels so real. I’m in some bizarre, delightful kind of hell.”

Nick nudged him, nodding sympathetically. “Just enjoy it while you can, mate.”

“And tomorrow?”

“Worry about tomorrow tomorrow. Here they come.” Nick extended an arm for Ilsa to cosy up to him.

Without really thinking about it, Robin insinuated herself next to Strike and slid an arm back into his coat. None of her flirting seemed to be working, as she had just bemoaned to Ilsa. She’d have to just accept that this was playacting and nothing would come of it. At least she wasn’t going to be cold any more, wrapped back up in Strike’s coat with her tummy warmed by Baileys and hot chocolate.

The second half was shorter, only a few carols, and by nine o’clock the band had finished and were beginning to pack up. The youngsters, suddenly able to see the base of the tree and the huge fake presents around it now that the crowds were dissipating, surged forward to look, and Lucy and Greg chased after them. Nick and Ilsa strolled along behind. Robin made to follow, but was stopped by Strike’s hand on her arm. “Robin—”

She turned back, looking up at him. “What’s up?”

Her breath stopped in her throat. He was looking at her with an intensity she had never seen before. Heart hammering, she waited.

“Boys! Jack!” Lucy panted through the crowds. Her sons could duck and dodge among the moving people faster than she and Greg could. Mercifully, when they reached the barrier keeping the crowds from the base of the tree, the boys were there, lined up, exclaiming at the size of the parcels and guessing what was in them. Guesses ranged from ride-along toy cars to “a real, live elephant!” from the youngest.

Smiling indulgently, Lucy patted little heads. “We really must get them home to bed,” she said to Ilsa. “Are you guys going on to the pub?”

“I think so?” Ilsa looked up at Nick, who shrugged and nodded.

“We’ll get off, then,” Lucy said, as Greg began to round up their sons. “Oh, where are Stick and Robin? We must say goodbye.”

She looked back towards where she had left her brother and his partner, and made a soft sound. “Aw, just look at them. I’m so happy for him.”

The Herberts turned, and a squeal escaped Ilsa before she could contain it. Stood by the fountain, lit by the underwater lighting and the glinting tree lights reflected off the water, Strike and Robin were wrapped in one another. His coat was folded around her and her arms were joined together behind his back underneath it as they kissed and kissed, heedless of the crowds milling around them, casting them the occasional amused or impatient look.

“Nick!” Ilsa gasped, and then his warning hand on her arm reminded her.

“Sorry, love,” he apologised. “Clumsy me, didn't see your foot there.”

“It’s okay,” she managed, and shot him a delighted look as Lucy turned away to straighten her boys’ hats and coats. Nick grinned back at his wife, nodding with delight.

“It’s so good to see Stick settled at last,” Lucy said over her shoulder. “He said it was all quite new.”

“Er, yeah, it is,” Nick managed.

“How long have you two known?” Lucy asked, turning back to them.

The Herberts exchanged a goofy grin. “Oh, not long,” Ilsa replied. “Not long at all.”


End file.
